


Family Matters

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [32]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: Being a study in the viscosity differential between blood and water





	

Title: Family Matters

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: NC-17

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie and Helen, betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess  
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Quinn’s Special Day  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies  
Crossing the Pond  
Moving  
Picnic in the Park

 

~*~*~*~

 

It had started out as such a nice afternoon.

 

Sam and Martha Kensington invited everyone over to the house. Nothing fancy, just some “family down-time.” Sam had dug out his Irish history collection to share with Quinn. For the non-historians in the group, there were a couple of interesting football matchups on tap. 

 

Owen planted himself in front of the television, joined by his son. Beryl and Martha chatted about Luke’s latest growth spurt, and Martha thought there was a jacket of Ben’s upstairs that might fit him. 

 

Ben found himself somewhat at loose ends. He enjoyed football, but neither team playing particularly interested him. His two favorite historians were embroiled in the establishment of the Irish Republic. His mother and sister-in-law went upstairs to look at winter clothes for Luke.

 

At halftime, Luke announced he was hungry, and voted for pizza. Beryl offered to go get it, and Luke asked to ride along. He was eager to show off his “new” leather coat, which his grandmother had exhumed from a bedroom closet. That it had originally been Ben’s was tacitly not mentioned.

 

Ben rose from the sofa and turned to Quinn. “Feel like a cuppa?”

 

“Cheers,” Quinn answered absently. Ben smiled and headed for the kitchen, leaving the two bibliophiles to their bonding.

 

As he stood at the counter waiting for the kettle to boil, his brother spoke from behind him. “Boy, he’s sure got you trained.”

 

Ben scowled over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Owen gestured at the cup and saucer on the counter, the kettle on the stove. “You cut his food up for him, too?” His voice was thick with contempt.

 

Ben silently prayed for patience. “It’s a friggin’ cup of *tea*, Owen. What’s the big deal?” He’d done it countless times at the brownstone, and Quinn had done the same for him. 

 

“So I guess that makes you the ‘wife,’ huh? The ‘little woman?’ Santa gonna bring you a nice frilly apron for Christmas?”

 

“You sorry sack of shit,” Ben snarled, bile rising in his throat. His brother’s constant degrading of his and Quinn’s relationship made him sick to his stomach. It was worse than anything Garth had ever said or done. This was his own flesh and blood. Apparently, it had been too much to hope for that they might set their differences aside for one afternoon.

 

Quinn had never made him feel weak or effeminate, or in any way less of a man. Yet, a small traitorous part of his brain questioned whether maybe he *was* the “female” part of their union: after all, he was traditionally on the “receiving” end when they made love. It had never occurred to him for it to be otherwise. He loved going down on Quinn, relishing the power and control, the thrill of feeling all that coiled strength entrusted to his care in such a vulnerable moment. And that same turgid organ pressing inside him, filling him, gave him a pleasure he could never have imagined. Hearing Quinn’s groans as he drove into him, moaning his name over and over, then holding each other close as they drifted together in the sleepy afterglow…

 

“Look at you.” Owen interrupted his reverie. The ridicule in his voice made the blood roar in Ben’s ears. “He’s got you so damned emasculated, you might as well be wearing crinolines and heels. Are you *that* hard up? Is his money *that* important to you? Or maybe you just like being some hot shot guy’s ‘boy toy’.” He grabbed at the waistband of Ben’s jeans, and Ben shoved his hand away. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, afraid I might mess up your pretty little lacy undies?”

 

That did it. Ben swung at his brother’s jaw, connecting with a satisfying crunch. He didn’t need to work out at a gym; toting computer equipment around campus for years had kept him fit, and he was a lot stronger than he looked. The two men grappled with each other, cursing volubly as each struggled for dominance. A punch to Ben’s solar plexus doubled him over, gasping for breath, but he refused to back down. He was fighting for Quinn, for himself, for everything they had together. 

 

“Boys, *boys*!” cried their mother, as she ran into the kitchen. “Stop it this instant! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves!”

 

“That will be quite enough, *gentlemen*.” Strong hands pinned Ben’s arms to his sides, even as their father stepped between the opponents to prevent them rejoining the battle. Ben was glad he couldn’t see the disapproval in Quinn’s blue eyes. The shock and disappointment in his father’s face, not to mention the tears in his mother’s eyes, were enough to make him want to crawl into a hole and hide.

 

“What the *hell* is going on in here?” Sam demanded. “Grown men, fighting like a pair of squabbling children! You outgrew this crap when you were kids!” He glared first at Owen, then at Ben, rigid in Quinn’s grasp. “Now who started it? And over what?” The unspoken *this time* resonated in Ben’s head. He took a deep breath, trying not to wince as his battered chest muscles protested.

 

“Forget it, Dad, it’s nothing you need concern yourself-” he began, gritting his teeth as Quinn’s hands tightened painfully on his biceps. A not-so-subtle warning to behave. Well, Ben was no rowdy freshman in one of Quinn’s classes. And damn it, he’d done *nothing* wrong! 

 

Then he looked again at his mother’s face. Shit. She didn’t deserve this, especially in her own home. Not from her only two children. “Sorry, Dad,” he mumbled, and the paralyzing grip relaxed slightly, as if to reward him for not making a total asswipe of himself. “Sorry, Mom,” he added to his mother, who sighed and bent to wipe up the mess where the cup and saucer had crashed to the floor in the scuffle. He dimly heard Owen mutter his own apology, though it didn’t sound very sincere to his ears. 

 

“Be ye thinkin’ it safe to let ’em go, Sam?” Quinn asked softly. “Or shall we be puttin’ ’em in a ring with some gloves, and lettin’ ’em finish each other off good and proper?” The scornful humor in the accented voice spoke volumes. Ben mentally reeled off George Carlin’s Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television. It didn’t make him feel any better.

 

“I think they’re done,” Sam answered slowly, looking from one son to the other. “But if you two have something to get off your chests, do it somewhere else. In this house, you’ll behave like adults, not children scrapping in a schoolyard. Is that clear?” Like Quinn’s, his tone brooked no protest, and both sons reflexively ducked their heads at the rebuke. In any other situation, it might have been comical, but Ben was feeling more abused than amused at the moment. The instant he felt Quinn’s grip relax, he jerked away and stormed out of the kitchen to the back yard, where he could compose himself. Quinn didn’t follow, but he could feel the blue eyes boring into him. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The crash from the kitchen startled the adults in the living room. “Excuse me, everybody. Sounds like a mess to be cleaned up. Oh, Quinn, sit, please. I’ll be right back,” said Martha, waving Quinn back to his seat. 

 

Sam chuckled wryly. “Always something. Bulls in a china shop, the lot of us, Quinn. I hope for your sake, you keep anything breakable safely locked up.”

 

Quinn smiled. “Not a problem, Sam. And we’re looking forward to you and Martha coming to visit again in the near-” 

 

“Boys, *boys*! Stop it this instant! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves!”

 

Alarmed, both men raced for the kitchen, where they found Owen and Ben locked in combat. Owen’s nose was bleeding, and a cup and saucer lay in pieces on the floor. The kettle screamed on the stove. Quinn grabbed Ben from behind, as Sam waded in between his sons. Martha was backed against the refrigerator, wringing her hands.

 

“That will be quite enough, *gentlemen*,” Quinn said sternly, his greater height allowing him to address Owen over the head of a pugnacious Ben. Not wanting to injure, he judiciously tightened his grip, signaling that struggle was pointless. He was shocked that Ben and his brother had seen fit to engage in fisticuffs in their parents’ kitchen, whatever the reason. Sam’s stinging reprimand echoed Quinn’s disquiet.

 

“Two grown men, fighting like a pair of squabbling children! You outgrew this crap when you were kids! Now who started it?”

 

Ben’s disrespectful reply earned him another warning contraction of the grip on his arms. There *would* be peace in their hosts’ home. The mumbled apologies to Sam and Martha were rewarded with a slight loosening of his hold. 

 

“Be ye thinkin’ it safe to let ’em go, Sam?” Quinn asked Ben’s father. “Or shall we be puttin’ ’em in a ring with some gloves, and lettin’ ’em finish each other off good and proper?” He forced a wry humor he was far from feeling into his voice, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

 

“I think they’re done,” Ben’s father replied, then coldly warned his sons to get their act together. Quinn sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Beryl and Luke hadn’t witnessed the altercation; a lad shouldn’t have to watch his father and uncle carrying on as if they were younger than he. 

 

Quinn had sorted out innumerable scraps among friends and family back home, even the occasional fracas on campus. Truth be told, he’d participated in, even instigated his own fair share, with predictable results. But this was no sporting testosterone challenge. The heated emotions flowing between the two brothers were almost palpable. Then Ben tore himself from Quinn’s grip and stomped out into the back yard. Quinn let him go. 

 

Reaching for some paper towels, he helped Martha wipe up the floor, carefully picking up the shards of china. She made a halfhearted effort to stop him, then turned her head away, embarrassment reddening her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, as he handed her a large piece of saucer to put in the trash. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. They were raised better, really they were.” She swiped at her eyes.

 

“Of course they were,” Quinn soothed. “Whatever started it was likely exaggerated in the heat of the moment, and will be forgotten just as quickly. Sometimes we just have to be blowin’ off a wee bit of steam, yeah?” He gave her a comforting smile when she finally met his gaze, and silently acknowledged her mute gratitude. He helped her to her feet, then turned to Sam, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, staring down the hall. Like Ben, Owen had disappeared, and was probably upstairs sulking. He couldn’t leave; Beryl and Luke had the car. 

 

“All good?” Quinn asked softly.

 

Sam nodded heavily. “For now,” he said. “You okay, honey?” he added to Martha, who nodded wordlessly from the sink, where she was reflexively wiping down the countertops. Quinn excused himself and followed Ben to the back yard. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben heard Quinn’s distinctive footstep, but didn’t turn around. He was still steamed, not just with Owen, but with himself. 

 

“Well?” Just the one word. 

 

“Well, what?” Ben retorted, with little emotion. 

 

“What happened back there?” 

 

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over.” Ben knew he sounded like a cantankerous child, but he wasn’t about to divulge what Owen had said. Ben had been diligent in keeping Owen’s venomous accusations as far from Quinn’s hearing as possible. It was his cross to bear.

 

A heavy sigh behind him, then he felt a hand settle on his shoulder. “Ben…” 

 

Ben shook his head, not turning around. “Let it go, Quinn, okay? It was just a stupid argument. We’ve been scrapping all my life.” Drop it, please, he silently begged. There’d been enough damage done already. 

 

“Stupid, I’ll grant ye.” Ben felt Quinn’s scorn batter his defenses. He’d been scrupulously polite inside, but he wasn’t going to mince words now. And while he probably deserved the censure, Ben wasn’t about to let himself be scolded like an errant kid, by Quinn or anyone else.

 

“I *said* drop it,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter.”

 

He heard the sharp intake of breath behind him and instantly regretted the harsh words. Oh, shit, that hadn’t come out right at all. He turned, an apology on his lips.

 

Quinn was gone.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Martha, Sam, forgive me, but I must be going.” 

 

“Oh, Quinn, no, please don’t leave,” Martha cried. “I’m sorry about the boys-”

 

“No apologies are necessary, I assure you. However, I’m afraid urgent campus business calls me away. Ben will remain here, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. Thank you for inviting me into your home, and please give my regrets to Beryl and Luke.” He shook Sam’s hand and raised Martha’s to his lips. “I’ll show myself out.” With a small bow, he strode down the hall, quietly closing the front door behind him.

 

Stricken, Sam and Martha stared at each other. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben slowly walked in from the back yard. The silence that met him spoke volumes. 

 

“He left, didn’t he?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“Yes,” his father answered. “He said you were staying.”

 

Ben nodded. “Guess so,” he mumbled, then walked to the sink for a glass of water. His throat was full of ashes, and his chest ached where Owen had slugged him. 

 

“Here, Ben,” his mother said, handing him a dampened paper towel. “You’re bleeding. Don’t get it on your shirt.”

 

“Thanks.” His nose didn’t feel broken, but it was going to hurt like hell later. Owen could explain to Beryl and Luke how he’d ended up with a first-class shiner. “Where’s-”

 

“Owen went upstairs to clean up,” his father answered unsympathetically. “Then you’re both going to tell us what was so damned important that you tried to beat the crap out of each other in your mother’s kitchen.”

 

Ben sighed, feeling all of five years old again. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, voice a bit muffled as he mopped at his nose. “We just had a difference of opinion about something, that’s all.”

 

“Some difference,” his father retorted. “You couldn’t simply have a discussion? You had to duke it out? With a *guest* in the house? I’m ashamed of both of you. No wonder Quinn left. I would have, too.”

 

“I *get* it, Dad, okay?” Ben said testily. “It was wrong. I screwed up. I’m sorry. Just leave it at that.”

 

“No, young man, we will *not* ‘leave it at that’!” his father snapped. “You and Owen are going to answer for what happened, and if you can’t make peace with each other, then you’ll just have to take it somewhere else and finish it.”

 

“Sam, please,” his mother implored, but he cut her off.

 

“No, Martha, this is more than just a scuffle in the back yard. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it, damned quick.”

 

“You heard him, Dad,” came Owen’s sullen voice from the doorway. “Let it go. We’ll work it out ourselves. We’re not kids anymore.”

 

“Well, you couldn’t have proved it a little while ago!” his father retorted. “And if you’re going to *act* like brats, you’ll be *treated* like brats. Now sit down, both of you. What the hell happened?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

The next few days were a nightmare, in slow motion. 

 

Sam drove Ben back to the brownstone after dinner. There was a light on in the living room, but the rest of the house was dark. Thankfully, the Jag was in the garage. Ben found Quinn in bed, an open bottle of Jameson’s on the bedside table. With the windows closed against the November temperatures, the room reeked of the potent Irish whiskey. He briefly considered sleeping in the guest room, but decided that was taking the easy way out and crawled into bed beside his lover, who did not stir. 

 

When he awoke the next morning, Quinn was already downstairs. Ben dressed and quietly entered the kitchen. Quinn was at the stove, preparing his morning tea. He still had on his dog-walking clothes.

 

“Good morning,” Ben offered hesitantly.

 

“Good morning,” Quinn replied politely, not looking up. He might have been greeting a student or a colleague. “Tea?”

 

“No, thanks. I- I’ve got an early meeting this morning. I’ll just grab something on the way.” He knew Quinn didn’t have any classes until afternoon, and would likely use the free time to do paperwork in his study.

 

Quinn nodded. “As you wish.” He stirred his mug and turned toward the doorway. “Have a good day.” 

 

The evening went much the same way. Quinn stayed late on campus, busy with labs and his weekly mentoring meeting with Ani Walker. Ben always looked forward to Quinn’s proud recitations of his “pet protégé’s” latest achievements. But Quinn was unnaturally reticent when he came in, courteously declining Ben’s offer of a late dinner and heading directly to his study. Ben did some computer work in the living room, then went upstairs to bed about midnight. Alone. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn’s heart ached every time he caught Ben pretending not to watch him. He knew the lad was sorry for what had happened, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to make the first overture. Over and over in his mind, he heard the hurtful words: It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. 

 

His Ballymena clan was boisterous and loud, and everybody minded everyone else’s business as a matter of course. Disagreements were commonplace, and no one hesitated to wade in if things got too scrappy. A simple fistfight might escalate into a free-for-all, if only for the pleasure of letting off steam, and no hard feelings afterward. Children got a spanking or a cuddle from an uncle or cousin as easily as from their own parents. His nieces and nephews knew from an early age that while Uncle Quinn could have a hard hand, he was a pushover for a quivering lip and big tearful eyes. 

 

But this was different, and Quinn strongly suspected it had to do with him. Owen Kensington had made it clear from the start that he saw Quinn as a threat to his well-ordered little universe. Beryl was friendly, while respectful of her husband’s wishes. Luke was a typical boy, full of energy and enthusiasm, and the cherished only grandchild. Sam and Martha had unsurprisingly been a bit taken aback at first by their younger son’s lifestyle choice, but they’d at least remained open-minded. Quinn and Sam shared several common interests. Martha was a soft-spoken and soft-hearted lady, who clearly loved her sons and wanted only the best for them. She reminded him of his own mother. He’d have been proud to have claimed kinship with them.

 

Then Ben had cut him dead in his parents’ back yard. It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. Not only was Quinn not clan, he was likely the wedge between the brothers. Ben had neither wanted nor asked for his help, and clearly resented his having interfered. He’d beaten an ignominious retreat, hating the distress on Sam and Martha’s faces, even as he’d bleated inanely about a non-existent campus emergency. 

 

It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. 

 

He’d driven home alone, gathering the shreds of his dignity around him like a shroud, wondering if Ben would return to the brownstone that night, or at all. Would he wait until Quinn was at work and simply pack up and move out? And if so, could Quinn let him go?

 

~*~*~*~

 

Bernini woke him early the next morning. He’d drowned his sorrows in Jameson’s and fallen into bed alone. The smell lingered in the bedroom, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. He despised the weakness in himself that took to the drink when he was upset. Strange that he couldn’t remember ever doing so until Ben came into his life. Maybe because until then he’d never allowed anyone to get close enough to wound his soul. Ben was the brightest star in his heavens, but it was a double-edged sword. And that sword had bitten deep; it wouldn’t heal easily, and would leave a scar.

 

Ben lay facing the far wall, hugging his own side of the bed. Dark bruises on the arm above the covers were a harsh reminder of the events of the previous evening. Quinn sighed. At least he’d come home last night. 

 

After Bernini’s morning walk, he busied himself with tea and a light breakfast. Thankfully, he had only a bit of a headache, not the full-blown hangover he’d been half-expecting. His first class wasn’t until 1:30, but he had quizzes to grade, and it might be a good time to get a jump on next year’s budget proposal. 

 

“Good morning,” came a quiet voice behind him. 

 

He didn’t trust himself to look up. “Good morning,” he replied, and politely offered tea. Ben declined, mumbling something about having to get to work early, and Quinn gave an inward sigh of relief. The time apart would likely be good for both of them. He picked up his Academy mug. “Have a good day.” He barely heard the reply as he retreated to the shelter of his study.

 

Classes that afternoon were uneventful. And if Ani noticed anything amiss during their weekly counseling session, he didn’t comment. Quinn busied himself late into the evening with labs and departmental issues, purposely delaying his return to the brownstone and a confrontation with Ben. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on other matters, his mind kept drifting back to the fight at the Kensington home. 

 

It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. 

 

He picked at the thought like a half-healed scab. He *knew* the truth: *he* was the problem. Blood was blood, the most important thing in any man’s life. He told himself he’d step aside if that was what was needed. He’d not protest, or beg Ben to stay. Eyes wide open, he’d make it as easy as possible to ease out of Quinn’s life.

 

And mourn the loss to the end of his days.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben knew he’d wounded Quinn when he’d shut him out after the fight. But they’d seemed almost strangers ever since, and that hurt, too. He wanted to explain, to apologize, but Quinn remained indifferent. They still shared the king-sized bed, but Quinn made no attempt to touch or hold him, even seemed to go out of his way to avoid any interaction. How he missed the quiet smiles, the casual touches, the nibbling, teasing kisses that had become such an important part of their daily lives. 

 

Most of all, Ben missed the easy camaraderie, working companionably at their respective pursuits in the evenings, content to know the other was only a glance or a touch away. Now Quinn was scrupulously polite, with no outward sign that anything was amiss, but little more. No longer lovers, barely even roommates. Ben wondered if he’d come home one evening soon and find his things neatly packed up in the garage, with an excruciatingly well-mannered eviction notice. Too bad they’d already thrown out the boxes.

 

After a couple of unsuccessful attempts at reconciliation, Ben had withdrawn as well. If Quinn was going to give him the silent treatment, no matter how well-deserved, he’d just have to wait him out. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Life fell into an uneasy routine. Quinn buried himself in his work. Ben found reasons to avoid the brownstone, leaving early, coming home late and heading straight to bed. When they spoke at all, it was restrained, with little of the easy familiarity and affection both had enjoyed before. Bernini vibrated confusedly between the two men, whining for solace. He abandoned his bed by the fireplace and barricaded the doorway of the master bedroom with his own body once both men were inside, comforted that for a few hours, at least, both his humans were in one place. 

 

The long Thanksgiving weekend was approaching, and Quinn wondered if Ben would use it as a convenient time to remove himself altogether from the brownstone. He’d not seen any boxes or suitcases, but privately feared the worst. After all, he reminded himself bitterly, Thanksgiving in the States was typically a *family* holiday. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben stared at the calendar on his laptop. Thanksgiving weekend. Last year he’d gone to his parents’ place, as usual. He and Quinn had just started seeing each other, and Quinn had waved him off with his best wishes. Before the dust-up with Owen, he’d even debated a big family dinner at the brownstone. Thank God he’d never mentioned it to Quinn. 

 

His mother had called earlier to ask about their plans, and he’d put her off. She hadn’t pressed him, but said to say hello to Quinn and reminded them not to be strangers. 

 

Strangers. That’s what they had become. Two ships, literally passing in the night. Ben could count on his fingers the total of non-sleeping hours they’d even been in the same room since the argument. He ached for a casual touch, a simple kiss goodnight. Sex was non-existent, when they’d been barely able to keep their hands off each other, except in public. 

 

He’d brought it on himself, he knew, but damn it, he’d *tried* to explain, to apologize more than once, and Quinn had spurned his efforts. Now it was as if a glass wall stood between them. He could see and hear Quinn, but couldn’t reach him. He’d stubbornly refused to move into the guest room, even though it held his own furniture from the apartment. Not that Quinn had asked him to. They ignored each other in the bedroom, as they did everywhere else. But if Quinn wanted him to leave, he’d have to come out and say so. Two could play the Silent Treatment game. And Ben had learned at the feet of the master.

 

The dance continued.

 

~*~*~*~

“Hello?”

 

“Quinn?”

 

“Speaking. Who’s calling, please?”

 

“It’s Martha Kensington. Ben’s mother. How- how are you?”

 

“Very well, Martha, thank you for asking,” he replied automatically. “And yourself and Sam?”

 

“Fine, thanks. Quinn, I just wanted to see what time we should expect you and Ben for dinner Thursday.”

 

Bollocks. “Ah… let me have Ben ring you back on that, shall I?” Damn the man for not having informed his parents he’d be coming alone! 

 

It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. 

 

Silence. Then, “Yes, of course.” There was another awkward pause. “I hope you’ll be able to join us. I know it’s a typically American holiday.” A slightly nervous laugh.

 

“And a grand tradition it is, to be sure. I’m certain you’ll do it proud,” Quinn agreed, cringing at having to tiptoe so carefully to avoid giving offense. “Ben’s out at the moment, but I’ll be sure to let him know you called.”

 

“Thank you, Quinn.” It seemed as if she might want to say something else, then, “Well… goodbye.”

 

“Thanks for calling, Martha. My best to Sam. Goodbye.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Yellow sticky note thumbtacked to the living room mantel:

 

Your mother called, asking when you’d be over for  
dinner on Thursday. Told her you’d ring her back.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben silently read the note, then read it again. Mom had said the *two* of them before. Surely she wasn’t inviting just him now. Or had Quinn already declined? 

 

The light was on in the study, the door slightly ajar to let in some air. Ben had suggested a ceiling fan, but Quinn worried it might disrupt his artfully artless filing system. Well, maybe this was a good opportunity to re-establish communication. Note in hand, he walked down the hall and knocked.

 

Silence. Then, just as he raised his hand again, “Come in.” 

 

Taking a deep breath, Ben pushed open the door and stuck his head in. “Busy?”

 

Quinn was seated at the partner’s desk, textbooks and the ubiquitous note pad in front of him. The laptop was conspicuously closed and shoved to the far corner of the desk. Ignored, discarded, much like the man who had convinced him to buy it in the first place. 

 

Professor Fossil, Ben thought, then caught himself before he could make a snarky comment to the near-stranger silently waiting for him to explain his appearance.

 

“I got your note, about Thursday,” he ventured. Quinn nodded. “Mom had called earlier, and I told her we’d get back to her, once we had our plans set.”

 

“So I gathered,” Quinn replied evenly. 

 

“She invited *both* of us.” Ben took a step inside the room, watching for any reaction.

 

Quinn picked up his fountain pen, turning it in his fingers, as if committing to memory the myriad scratches and dents it had acquired over more than 25 years of constant use. Ben waited, not wanting to read anything into it, but allowing himself a tiny hope that Quinn would finally open up to him after the interminable silence. At least he hadn’t told him to get out.

 

“Best go without me,” Quinn said softly, not looking up.

 

Disappointed, but hardly surprised, Ben leaned against the bookcase just inside the door, affecting a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “So, Owen wins by default.”

 

Quinn raised his head and frowned. “Excuse me?”

 

Ben shrugged. “He’s made it pretty clear he thinks we’re a pair of degenerates. ’Course, he’s always been a bit of an idiot.” He sighed. “I’ll tell Mom to go ahead without us.”

 

“No, I said-”

 

“I heard you. But either we *both* go, or *neither* of us goes. I’m not going to sit through dinner letting Owen think he’s convinced me to give you up.” He shook his head. “Not an option, sorry.”

 

Quinn stared at his pen. When he finally spoke, Ben had to strain to hear. “I’m not family.” 

 

Crap on a cracker. Ben heard again his own words in his parents’ back yard: It’s none of your business. It’s a family matter. He’d instantly regretted saying it, but Quinn had given him no opportunity since to heal the breach. That wound needed a tourniquet. 

 

Ben walked around the big desk and bent down, face inches away from Quinn’s, who reflexively leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it over. “You’re wrong, Quinntrell Joseph Michael Donovan,” he said firmly. “You stubborn, shit-for-brains English-Irish jackass. I don’t give a flying fuck what Owen thinks, or anyone else, for that matter. You’re *my* lover, *my* partner, my *life*, and if he can’t deal with it, then he can go… what’s the word? Oh, yeah, he can go bugger himself.” Green eyes bored unwaveringly into blue.

 

Quinn blinked once, twice, then pushed his chair back until it bumped into the scarred drop-leaf table behind him. He searched Ben’s face, reading, cataloguing. Ben held his ground. 

 

The silence in the room was deafening.

 

Quinn removed his reading glasses, then seemed to realize, too late, that he still held his fountain pen, now with nowhere to set either one. Ben took the pen and casually tossed it on the desk behind him. Quinn reached for his handkerchief, but Ben intercepted him again, taking glasses *and* handkerchief, and placing them on the desk as well. He could feel the framed picture of Quinn’s parents on the wall behind him, standing in mute support.

 

The big man sat wordlessly for another long moment, then his body language subtly changed. Nothing overt, but it was clearly *his* Quinn sitting in front of him, not the Quinn-clone who’d been wandering the house since the fight. Ben slid into his lap, arms enfolding his lover, who resisted about a half-second before returning the embrace, leaning his face into Ben’s neck. His arms trembled and Ben crooned wordless comfort, as the desk chair creaked in rhythm to their mutual release.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn wasn’t surprised when Ben knocked on the study door. Martha’s phone call apparently was about to bring things to a head. 

 

What surprised him was Ben’s handling of the situation. The lad met him head-on and threw down a gauntlet. He staked his claim, and to hell with anyone who tried to say otherwise, even his own flesh and blood. 

 

Love me, love my dog, Quinn thought ruefully. This felt all kinds of wrong. *He* was the one who led the charge, who challenged all comers to battle, who fought to the death. But Ben -- *his* Ben – stood ready, sword and pistol in hand, daring anyone to come between him and his love. He glanced down at himself, half-expecting to see flowing skirts and a low-cut bodice. No, just a rather wrinkled dress shirt, stained with drops of tea and the remains of an entirely dreadful take-out sandwich left over from the night before.

 

Looking into Ben’s leaf-green eyes, the wall of ice around his heart… splintered. God, how he’d missed his lad. Those eyes, the cleft chin jutting adorably at him. The wavy auburn hair that made his fingers itch to comb through it. He pulled off his reading glasses to buy himself some time, but forgot he was still holding his fountain pen. The wee devil took both from him, along with his handkerchief. He gripped the armrests of the desk chair, praying Ben wouldn’t see how close he was to breaking down altogether. *He* was the strong one, bigger, older, the one who led. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, least of all by his years-younger lover.

 

Then he suddenly had a lapful of warm comfort, even as the chair groaned alarmingly under their combined weight. He heard the soothing nonsensical sounds in his ear and caved, pulling his lad close and filling his lungs with his beloved’s unique scent. 

 

Moments or an eternity later, they finally broke apart, and Ben retrieved the handkerchief from the desktop, gently wiping Quinn’s cheeks and forehead. Sweat or tears, or a combination, Quinn wasn’t sure, but somehow it no longer mattered. 

 

“You don’t have to always be so tough, you know,” Ben said softly. “I won’t tell anybody you’re just a big teddy bear under all that bluster.”

 

“I’ll try to be rememberin’ that,” Quinn answered weakly. “But they’d not be believin’ ye anyway, y’know.” His Ben had come back to him, and his world had righted itself again. 

 

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “We’ll just have to keep ’em guessing.” They reached for each other again, and the long kiss said it all. Then Ben stood, pulling him to his feet, and led him upstairs.

 

~*~*~*~

 

They lay in the big bed, sheets thrown back and the ceiling fan cooling the heat from their shared passion. It had been all the sweeter for the self-imposed abstinence, and neither was willing to break the spell. When Ben attempted to rise from the bed, Quinn pulled him back down, reluctant to be parted for even those few moments. Ben gave a token resistance, then snuggled into the embrace, nuzzling into Quinn’s chest with a deep sigh.

 

Quinn was nearly asleep when Ben spoke. “We still need to talk about Thursday.”

 

Thanksgiving dinner with the Kensingtons. 

 

Memories of stilted, scrupulously polite conversation in the living room. The hostility in the air that had seemed to breathe like a living thing. The fistfight between Ben and Owen in the kitchen, and the bitter aftermath. Quinn swallowed hard. How would they avoid another such confrontation?

 

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be better-” Quinn began, but Ben cut him off.

 

“*No*, Quinn. We go together, or not at all. Mom made it very clear that we were *both* expected.” He sat up and pinned Quinn with another of those Looks Quinn was already learning to respect. “So tuck your over-sized ego back in your pants and pick us out a bottle of wine to go with the roast turkey.” 

 

The image that sprang to mind nearly made Quinn choke with laughter. Ben gave him a cocky grin and headed for the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later with a warm washcloth, and sponged away the residue from Quinn’s abdomen, groin and legs. Quinn allowed himself to be tended to, even managing to produce the expected purr deep in his chest. Some things hadn’t been overturned in their universe quite yet.

 

And this bold and dynamic Ben was a novelty that bore closer inspection. The lad had never been a clinging vine, but he seldom challenged Quinn’s authority, even in their most intimate moments. Perhaps some good had come out of the argument after all. He owed it to Ben to meet him halfway, to attend his family’s get-together and strive to avoid any conflict. After all, the lad had crossed the entire feckin’ Atlantic Ocean to meet *his* clan; the least Quinn could do was venture across town.

 

It was simply a matter of good manners and negotiation. Quinn prided himself on being able to get along with just about anyone (with the exception of a certain visiting English Lit professor, who, thanks be to God, would be departing at the end of the school year), and he genuinely liked Ben’s parents. He and Sam had a lot in common, and Martha reminded him of his own mother, though she was probably no more than a handful of years older than himself. Away from her overbearing husband, Beryl was charmingly open-minded, and Luke was a bright and engaging child. Owen was the only fly in the ointment, but hopefully he’d behave as well. Sauce for the goose…

 

He smiled and spread his arms in surrender. “I be your willin’ prisoner, Sir Knight. Carry me off to your castle and clap me in irons.”

 

Ben’s face split in a grin that made Quinn’s heart leap. “Now that’s more like it,” he said, rewarding him with a kiss that left them both breathless. After the long dry spell, their desire for each other was barely contained, but Quinn knew he wasn’t up to much of a repeat performance at the moment. He’d happily pleasure his lover with mouth, hands or both, but anything more would probably give him a heart attack.

 

As if reading his mind, Ben slid down Quinn’s chest, and lay on top of him like a warm blanket. Given the difference in their heights, it was a rather short blanket, to be sure, but neither cared.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The two men arrived at the Kensington home about 4:30 pm that Thursday, with a colorful bouquet for the table and a bottle of Quinn’s homemade dandelion wine. Sam and Martha greeted them cordially, as did Beryl. Owen was civil, though he seemed to go out of his way to keep Luke close to him.

 

The men sat in the living room, watching the football rivalries saved for the occasion. Quinn had boned up on the sport, so as not to seem a total neophyte, and carefully echoed the others’ cheers and jeers. The strategizing from the sidelines reminded him of a physical game of chess.

 

At halftime, Owen rose and turned to Quinn. “Can I talk to you? Alone?”

 

Careful not to react, Quinn nodded and stood. “Lead on.”

 

The two men strolled around the yard for a minute or two, Quinn waiting silently for Owen to speak his thoughts. He was careful to keep abreast with Ben’s brother, neither ahead nor behind.

 

“Beryl told me about offering Luke the puppy,” Owen finally said, staring into space. “It was… nice of you to think of my boy.” 

 

“Happy to do it,” Quinn replied. “But as I told Beryl, we would never go forward without your full approval. Luke is your son, and a large-breed puppy can take some household adjustment.”

 

Owen hummed in his throat. “Yours is what, about 70 pounds?”

 

“That’s right. He’s not quite five years old, and stands about two feet high at the shoulder. The puppy would be about 12 pounds or so. They’re absolute klutzes until they grow into their paws, so you’ll want to lock up anything fragile. But they’re wonderful with children.” Bernini had loved playing with Luke in the back yard the time or two Beryl had brought him over, before the fight in Martha’s kitchen. 

 

Owen walked on a few steps, head down as he scuffed through the leaves, apparently deep in thought. Quinn remained where he was, trying to read the other man’s body language. 

 

“Thanks,” Owen said over his shoulder, and Quinn moved to his side. “I’m not much of a dog person, but Luke… well, he’d probably like to have one.” 

 

“You’re welcome,” Quinn responded, fighting the urge to cheer. “But you don’t have to make up your mind right away. It’s probably best if the pup stays with its mother and its littermates for a few more weeks yet. Two to three months old is a good time to wean them away.”

 

“So you’re thinking for Christmas.” It wasn’t a question. 

 

Quinn hesitated. “It can be, if you wish. Luke would be off from school for the holidays, so they’d have ample time to bond. But we could also make it later, if you prefer.” 

 

Owen seemed to be struggling with himself. “I’ll think about it,” he said, staring toward the street.

 

Quinn imagined several pairs of eyes watching them through the walls. Owen seemed to be making a decent effort to be civil, and there might not be another such opportunity. He took a deep breath. 

 

“Owen, I’d like to talk to you about Ben. I get that it’s hard to accept me in his life. You’re his big brother. You’ve grown up watching out for him. I have two younger sisters, and it was my solemn duty to keep them safe. And where we grew up, that was more than bullies in a schoolyard. It could mean bombs in the street, and people wanting us dead for no other reason than that we went to Mass on Sundays and prayed in Latin.” Michaleen’s tiny grave in the churchyard rose before his eyes, and he swallowed hard against the pain. 

 

Owen made no response, though he did appear to be paying attention. “You’ve done a grand job as Big Brother, Owen, and Ben loves you. You’re his family. You’re *blood*. But Ben’s a grown man, and more than capable of making his own decisions. He’ll always love you, just as he loves his parents, but your job as protector is done. You have your wife and son to look after. Ben is-”

 

“Your problem now?” Owen interjected. 

 

Quinn bit back a sarcastic retort, forcing himself to speak calmly. “He is not my ‘problem,’ as you put it, no, but he *is* my concern and my responsibility. My sisters are grown, with families of their own. I’m their only brother, and I’ve been ‘mother hen’ed’ from several thousand miles away for longer than I care to think about. I’d be there for them in a heartbeat, but I don’t monitor their every move, or even offer advice, unless it’s asked of me. It’s a family thing, you’ll agree.” 

 

Owen nodded briefly, and Quinn continued. “Ben and I love each other, Owen, and that love is no less real for our having two ‘Y’ chromosomes apiece. I know you find it difficult to believe that, but it’s the truth. No harm will come to him while I have breath in my body. But I don’t govern his every action. He’s not a dog, or a slave. He is *Ben*, a grown, intelligent, well-educated man, who loves with his whole heart, mind and soul.” 

 

“Yeah, he does,” Owen said reluctantly, and hope sparked in Quinn’s mind. Maybe the man was coming around, even a little? 

 

He spoke persuasively, pressing the advantage. “Owen, cutting Ben off has wounded him deeply. He’s hurting over it, and so are your parents. Luke is an innocent child. He could easily twist things around in his mind and blame himself for it, and we both know that’s wrong. We will, of course, respect your wishes as his father. I will remain at a distance, if you prefer, but please don’t push Ben away. He doesn’t deserve that.” He paused again, then played his trump card. “Shall we let the puppy be the binding tie? And just let everyone enjoy Luke’s pleasure in him?” 

 

Owen’s expression was unreadable. Quinn waited patiently for him to work through things in his own mind. For Ben’s sake, for his parents’ sake. For Beryl and Luke. Even for Owen himself. Owen wasn’t a bad man, just miserably uninformed and close-minded. Such things could be corrected, in time, with education. And Quinn was first and foremost an educator. 

 

Finally, Owen spoke, staring straight ahead. “You missed your calling.” 

 

Quinn blinked. “Sorry?”

 

“You should have been a lawyer. Or a salesman. You could probably sell snow to Eskimos.” There was the tiniest glimmer of grudging respect in his eyes.

 

Quinn nodded. “It can be an asset, even in my field.”

 

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I do.” Firmly, without hesitation.

 

Brown eyes locked with blue. “You hurt him, and you’ll answer to me. You get that?”

 

Quinn met his gaze steadily. “I can’t promise he won’t ever *be* hurt, but you have my solemn word that I will never *intentionally* cause him pain.” 

 

Owen nodded. “I’ll be watching you, Donovan.” It was a warning, but somehow it landed more softly than Quinn might have expected. Maybe there was hope after all. 

 

“Give us a fair wind and an open sea,” he said quietly.

 

“That another Irish-ism?”

 

Quinn smiled. “It’s something me old Da used to say when I was growing up. It just stuck with me.” Ironically, it was what his father had asked of his future father-in-law in England, to no avail. Two days later, the young couple had eloped to County Antrim, turning their backs on Jenny’s home and substantial inheritance in England. 

 

“Hmm,” was the only reply.

 

“Owen? Quinn? Dinner’s ready.” Martha’s voice came from the doorway. 

 

The two men made their way back inside. Quinn was careful to allow Owen to precede him through the door, and at Ben’s cautious questioning glance, gave a shallow nod over the shorter man’s head. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Thanksgiving dinner had come and gone. Ben felt that, on balance, they had acquitted themselves fairly well. At least there hadn’t been any fistfights this time. He was looking ahead to the Christmas holidays with slightly less trepidation than before.

 

Quinn seemed unusually reticent over the weekend, and Sunday night in bed, Ben finally asked what was bothering him. Quinn haltingly explained that he was having difficulty wrapping his head around something he had read. 

 

“It was a novel, allegedly written by a gay man married to another gay man, and raising two small children. I believe it was meant to be largely tongue-in-cheek, but somehow it came across as… mean-spirited, even a bit whiny, and more than a little stereotypical. And it worries me that it typified a lot of Owen’s attitude.”

 

Ben was familiar with the book in question. Somehow, though, he doubted Owen would have read it, even in secret. “It’s supposed to be satirical, love. Kind of poking fun at himself. Why do you say it was stereotypical?”

 

Quinn sighed. “It just seemed to illustrate everything society appears to mock in gay men. Effeminate, walking wounded, sexually deviant divas. It was… offensive. I wanted to shove it down the garbage disposal.” He rubbed his nose and frowned.

 

Ben smiled, glad to be, for once, on the teaching end of an issue. “How many people do you know?”

 

The query clearly caught the other man off-guard. “Beg pardon?”

 

Ben patiently repeated his question.

 

“Many, some better than others, obviously. Why do you ask?” Confused by the apparent non sequitur.

 

“And are they all alike, personality-wise?”

 

“Of course not,” Quinn answered. Then realization clearly dawned. “Ah, I see your point. Touché.”

 

“Exactly.” Ben hugged him. “Quinn, take it from me, you are totally ‘butch.’ But there *are* gay men who are more… well, woman-like in their outlook and mannerisms, and that’s okay, too. Hell, I know straight men totally in touch with their feminine sides, and straight women who might as well be wearing jockstraps instead of panties.”

 

Quinn made a vaguely affirming noise in his throat. “How do you see yourself?” 

 

Ben pulled back from Quinn’s arms so he could give the question proper consideration. “I guess I’m somewhere in the middle,” he said slowly. “I’m nowhere near as ‘alpha male’ as you.” Quinn snorted, but made no other comment. “But I don’t have a burning desire to put on a lacy bra and garter belt, either.” He laughed at the bewildered look on Quinn’s face. “I do love that silk robe you got me, though.” 

 

“I like you wearing it. I like taking it *off* you. Rather like unwrapping a present. And if a silk robe is the only criterion, then we’re in the same boat.” The blue eyes gleamed, and Ben felt the familiar stirring of arousal. “But I don’t know that we could even find a bra and garter belt that would fit you, love,” he continued, straight-faced. “Even if you were so inclined.” He scratched an ear. “Perhaps Adele could suggest something…” 

 

Ben stared, not sure his leg was being pulled. Then he grinned. Turnabout was fair play. “Ever been to a drag-queen show?”

 

Quinn groaned. “No, thank you kindly. But if you wanted to, I suppose I could bear it for an evening.” He tapped the side of his head. “Purely for research purposes, o’course.”

 

“Or we could just watch “The Birdcage,” Ben agreed. “You like Gene Hackman, and I like Robin Williams. And Nathan Lane’s a hoot.” 

 

There was a comfortable silence, broken by an occasional snigger from one or the other. Then, “Must there be designated male and female roles?” 

 

Uh oh. Apparently, he’d hit a nerve. Or maybe the ever-curious biologist was just joining the party. “I don’t see why,” Ben said lightly. “I *was* just kidding, you know.”

 

“But do you consider yourself to be… ‘the girl’?” Quinn persisted.

 

“Do *you* pretend I’m a girl when we’re making love?” Ben countered. “I mean, I *am* the one getting shagged, after all.” He smiled to take the sting out of the words. “And I *love* it, so don’t even think about changing things, by the way.”

 

Quinn looked pensive. “Hmmm, you’re right. I hadn’t given it much thought. It just seems so… natural. But it does rather put you in the ‘female’ role, so to speak. I shouldn’t presume.” He blushed. “Do you… um… would you…” Words failed, and Ben fought the urge to tease. This was a sensitive subject, and needed to be handled carefully.

 

“I told you, Quinn, I *love* it when you fuck me. And I love going down on you, at least as much as I love the feel of you inside me. But if you want to change things up sometime, I’m okay with that. Just don’t feel that we *have* to, if it makes you uncomfortable, okay?”

 

“But-”

 

“Stop worrying about it, babe. We’re terrific. I know I’m nowhere near as ‘manly’ as you, but frankly, I don’t know many men who are.” He grinned and Quinn smiled back, apparently willing to be convinced. “It’s a *huge* turn-on for me, knowing my he-man wants to jump my bones. If that makes me ‘the girl,’ then, hey, I’m fine with that.” 

 

And, truthfully, he was. Still, he prayed Quinn never found out the reason he and Owen had come to blows in their mother’s kitchen. He could still hear the scorn in Owen’s voice: I guess that makes you the ‘wife,’ huh? The ‘little woman?’ Santa gonna bring you a nice frilly apron for Christmas? He’d stupidly let Owen get to him, and it had caused a rift in his and Quinn’s relationship. Ironically, it had ultimately been Ben who had called Quinn out and made him deal with the situation. And the highly charged and emotional confrontation left them more strongly united than ever.

 

Quinn pulled him back into his arms. “*Are* you happy, my love?” he said quietly. “With me, with us?” There was a hint of insecurity in the accented voice, and Ben buried his face in Quinn’s chest, searching for the heartbeat that centered his world in times of trouble.

 

“Absolutely,” he said firmly, wrapping an arm around his lover. “Are you?”

 

“Yes.” The one word said it all. “Never change.”

 

“Promise,” Ben agreed, snuggling into Quinn’s embrace. After a moment, he leaned back and asked curiously, “What about you? How do you see yourself?”

 

Quinn answered in typically clinical fashion. “I can’t honestly remember being ‘attracted’ to other men as an adult. I suppose one must discount the usual ‘experimentation’ most boys have with friends as they approach puberty.” He shook his head. “There was a lot of locker room talk in school, but I think we both know it’s usually just that. Of course, being raised Catholic, I was taught that any such ‘unclean thoughts’ – toward either sex – were to be confessed and repressed.” 

 

He paused, clearly gathering his thoughts. “I told myself in college, and later in grad school, that I had no time for socializing, being determined to make nothing less than perfect grades, if only to spite my grandfather. But looking back, I have to wonder if I was afraid of discovering something about myself that I didn’t want to recognize at the time.” He smiled self-deprecatingly and Ben grinned back, wondering how many broken hearts his handsome Irish-born lover had unknowingly left in his wake. 

 

“What about Adele?” he asked, with a teasing smile and a kiss that removed any stigma or accusation.

 

Quinn’s voice was fond. “Adele was my lifeline, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. She made things so… *easy* for me. I never questioned what we had between us; I just thanked God for her. We were friends long before we ever became intimate, and even that was a rarity.” He frowned. “In hindsight, she may have suspected my… susceptibility… to other attractions, seeing as how she maneuvered to bring the two of us together.” He reached for another kiss. “Rather Machiavellian of her, don’t you think?”

 

Ben was pleased to hear Quinn admit that he and Adele had been even casual lovers. It marked a new level of honesty and understanding in their relationship. The petite Parisienne was a cherished friend and confidante. He did wonder, though, why such a beautiful and gifted woman seemed to have little interest in a romantic association of her own. 

 

Quinn brushed a recalcitrant lock of hair off Ben’s forehead. “The clinician in me always put it down to just having a low sex drive.” Ben snorted incredulously. “Hush, infant, whilst I wax profound. I can admire statuary and paintings of men and women in their natural state, but neither particularly arouses me sexually.” He grimaced in distaste. “And pornography leaves me cold.” 

 

“Come on, you’re telling me you don’t like old Saint Sebastian over there?” Ben teased. The framed photograph of Ben posing as Quinn’s favorite Baroque subject had been a Valentine’s Day gift. 

 

“Of course I do,” Quinn protested. “But there’s a world of difference between porn and *art*.” He gazed at the picture for a long moment. “And that is *definitely* art, in every sense of the word.”

 

“Uh huh,” Ben said skeptically. “What’s your point, Professor?”

 

“My point is, I believe I have to *love* first. I can admit to an almost immediate attraction to you, but I would never have acted upon it without first being absolutely sure you were similarly inclined.” He shrugged. “If that makes me old-fashioned, then so be it. I’m far too old to change.”

 

“I *love* that you’re old-fashioned,” Ben said fiercely, clasping Quinn’s face in both hands and staring into his blue eyes. “I love *everything* about you, not just your physical attributes. I can’t imagine you any other way. The night of the party was as much a surprise to me as you. I love you, Quinntrell Joseph Michael Donovan, and I don’t care who knows it, or doesn’t like it. Fuck ‘em.”

 

“I’d rather not,” Quinn said mildly. “But I love you, too.” 

 

Ben leaned into the warm embrace, soaking up the ambience between them, wholly content. 

 

After a long moment, Quinn asked quietly, “Ben, is that what you want? For us to ‘come out,’ as they say? To go completely public and damn the torpedoes? I have to admit, it was a bit unnerving to be introduced to your co-workers as your ‘partner,’ but they seem to have taken it pretty well.”

 

“I’m not sure,” Ben said honestly. “We know the school isn’t crazy about the idea. And it doesn’t look like you’re going to be hanging up your laser pointer anytime soon. But I’m not ashamed of what we have, and they can’t make me feel guilty. We’re consenting adults, and it’s really nobody else’s business what we do in private, is it?”

 

“Quite so,” Quinn agreed fervently. “Sex is a private matter, regardless of the social mores. It does seem a bit hypocritical, though, that everyone on campus was in a perpetual state of suspense over the idea that Adele and I might tie the knot, whereas you and I had to keep our relationship under wraps from those same persons.” He paused, then added carefully, “I also have concerns about being turned into “poster children” for any underground gay or lesbian groups on campus. The last thing we need is to be paraded around as an example to be emulated by the students, or even by other faculty.”

 

Ben nodded. Quinn had obviously given this a good deal of thought. And he had a point: it *wasn’t* just them. If there were others on campus also still undeclared, then he and Quinn could easily be seen as leading the charge. Quinn would despise that kind of publicity, and frankly so would he. And worse, they risked violating the privacy of others similarly inclined, if the Board instituted a witch hunt, on grounds of ‘moral turpitude.’ It was a quandary. 

 

But it also raised another question that had been troubling Ben for some time. “Quinn,” he said carefully, not moving from his lover’s arms, “Do you ever wonder if the fact that we had to keep things quiet…” He struggled to put his thoughts into words, and heard Quinn’s encouraging hum. “Was that part of the attraction? The… ‘forbidden fruit?’” He felt his own throat closing at the thought, but he had finally voiced his biggest fear, and now he needed to hear the answer, good or bad.

 

“No,” Quinn said at last, drawing Ben’s head back to his chest. “I don’t see the secrecy as factoring into what we feel. It might add a wee bit of spice, but it’s really not all that different from Adele fanning the flames about her and me, is it?” He chuckled, and Ben enjoyed the vibration against his cheek. “She delighted in making people think the worst, which ironically provided a measure of cover for us. But I would love you no less – or *more* – if we were an openly declared couple. We’ve made your new co-workers aware. We’re living together. We can gradually bring it out into the open, when and if it seems appropriate to do so. But, frankly, I’m in no hurry.” He kissed the top of Ben’s head, as if in apology, and Ben tightened his grip around Quinn’s waist, exhaling the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding until that moment. 

 

“I love you, Quinn,” he whispered, comforted by the knowledge that they were in accord.

 

“That’s all that matters, lad,” Quinn said, into his hair. “That’s all that matters.”

 

~end~


End file.
